Brittany
I learn real fast that in Hell, Kentucky, a man can ruin you without ever touching you. All he has to do is look at you once in front of the right people, then pretend you don’t exist.
A week passes like I’m walking through fog.
I keep my head down. I do my classwork at the kitchen table with a lamp that flickers when the air conditioner kicks on.
Because Daddy still hasn’t come home and the electric bill still ain’t getting paid by prayer, I go to work and ring up chainsaws and pawned wedding bands and gold necklaces that smell like somebody else’s perfume.
I babysit Mason, wipe his sticky hands on my jeans, and laugh when he calls the toy truck vroom like he invented the word.
I tell myself I’m okay.
I tell myself the glove was a prank.
I tell myself the Pearly Gates boy staring at me outside the diner was just nosy and not something else.
Two weeks pass, and I tell myself I don’t care that Oaks hasn’t shown his face again.
Not at the pawn shop. Not at the gas station. Not at the diner. Not even one of those drive-by Harley rumbles that make the windows shake and my stomach flip like I’m the one being called out.
He warned me and then he vanished.
Which is exactly what a grown, married biker ought to do.
It still pisses me off.
Because I didn’t ask him to line my boots up by a door like he was some gentleman in a world full of wolves. I didn’t ask him to write me a note like he knew my name mattered. I didn’t ask him to stand between me and the dark.
But he did.
Then he took it away.
Now my whole stupid body misses the sight of him like it got used to being protected without permission.
I hate that about me.
I hate that I’m the kind of girl who can get attached to a man off a warning and a note.
I’m halfway through a chapter for my online class when Lottie calls and tells me to swing by Hollar Dollar for Mason’s snacks, because she’s stuck at the pawn shop dealing with some fool trying to pawn a generator that’s still got mud from a construction site on it.
“Grab him gummy bears,” she says. “The ones shaped like worms. Don’t ask why he likes ’em. He tried a real worm this week.”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, smiling until I hang up and remember where I’m going.
Hollar Dollar sits right beside the pawn shop, right on the line between Official and Hell, that strip of mall where everything smells like exhaust and fried food.
No yellow sign, it’s local and doesn’t belong to Holler though folks always asks.
It’s the kind of place you stop at when you’re about broke and desperate or just tired of fighting the crowds at Walmart a county over.
Becki’s working the register when I walk in.
Of course she is.
Becki Crowley looks like somebody who survived a storm and kept the lightning.
Dark hair pulled back, winged eyes tired but sharp, mouth set like she’s got secrets clenched between her teeth.
She’s wearing that neon green Hollar Dollar shirt like it’s punishment, tapping her matching nails against the counter like she’s counting down to something.
She looks up when the bell jingles and her eyes narrow. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, forcing lightness.
Becki doesn’t smile. She never smiles like she means it. “You still breathing?”
“Last I checked.”
She leans forward like she’s about to tell me the sale price on canned beans. “You been watched?”
My stomach does that sick twist it’s been doing since the glove. “No.”
Her eyes say she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t call me a liar. She just flicks her gaze past my shoulder to the glass doors like she expects somebody to walk in behind me.
I grab Mason’s gummy worms and a pack of juice boxes and try to pretend my hands ain’t shaking.
“Lottie says you’re being good,” Becki says.
“I’m being good,” I snap too fast.
Becki’s mouth twitches like she’s amused, but her eyes ain’t. “Good don’t matter in this county. Good just means you’re easier to shove into a trunk. Easier to hack into little pieces. Easier to get rid of.”
I glare at her. “Why do you talk like you’re in a horror movie?”
Becki leans back and crosses her arms. “Because I’ve lived it.”
That lands heavier than it should, and for a second I see past the sarcasm. Past the edge. I see a girl who knows what it is to be trapped in a story other people wrote for her.
I don’t ask. I can’t afford to. I’ve got enough ghosts on my back already.
I pay, turn to leave, and then the bell jingles again.
A group of women walks in laughing too loud.
Club women.
Not the sweet ones like Lottie who can crack a joke and still feel like a real human being. These ones have that hard shine in their eyes. No vests hugging their bodies. Dark lip stick and tattoos like weapons.
They see me immediately.
One of them pauses, smirks, and says to her friend like I’m not standing three feet away, “Ain’t that the one?”
Heat climbs my neck so fast it burns.
I keep walking. Keep my face neutral. Keep my hands steady.
Behind me, I hear it anyway.
“That trash is old news.”
It’s quiet, but it’s meant to be heard.
Becki’s gaze snaps to them, sharp as a blade. “Y’all need help finding something, or you just here to run your mouths?”
The women laugh like Becki’s entertaining.
One of them tilts her head. “Look ladies, Crazy Becki has a friend. Just shopping. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Becki’s smile is all teeth. “Trust me. Ain’t nobody twisting mine.”
They drift past, but I feel their eyes on my back like hands, like claws, like they’re memorizing me for later.
I walk out into daylight pretending I’m not rattled.
I’m rattled.
I get in my car and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles hurt and my throat tightens like I might cry.
I don’t cry.
I drive.
I forget about the gummy worms. I don’t go to work. Lottie doesn’t even call to check on me. I send her a text that says I’m sorry. But at home, dad hasn’t returned and I’ve not been to the store. Hunger makes me brave the storm.
The diner is packed when I stop later for a coffee I don’t need and a plate of fries I barely touch. Folks in Hell treat the diner like a second home. They come to watch and judge and gossip while chewing bacon.
I slide into a booth near the window and try to focus on my laptop.
I’m doing okay until I hear a chair scrape.
Someone slides into the booth across from me without asking.
Elijah.
He’s wearing a clean button-down and jeans, hair still neat like he doesn’t have to sweat for a living. He smiles like I’m a normal girl in a normal town.
“Hey,” he says soft.
My stomach flips. Stupid. Always stupid around him.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to play it cool like I didn’t daydream about him when I was fifteen.
He nods toward my fries. “You eating?”
“I was,” I lie.
He chuckles. “You look tired.”
“That’s just my face,” I say.
His eyes search mine, careful and watchful like he’s looking for bruises he can’t see. “You been alright?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Elijah’s gaze flicks to the booth behind me, to the counter, to the door.
He’s checking the room.
A chill crawls up my spine. “Why you looking around like that?”
He hesitates, and that hesitation tells me everything. “People talk,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, too sharp.
He leans forward, voice dropping. “I don’t like the way they’re talking about you.”
My pulse stutters. “Why do you care?”
His cheeks flush just a touch. “Because I’ve always cared.”
That hits me in the gut, soft and warm and dangerous.
I swallow hard. “Elijah…”
“You don’t belong in their world,” he says, and I hate that those words come out like he’s saving me. Like he’s rescuing me from something I chose.
“I didn’t ask to belong,” I snap. “I went to a party.”
“That ain’t how they see it,” he replies.
I can feel my face getting hot. I can feel eyes on me. I can feel the whole diner listening even when they’re pretending not to.
“I’m not property,” I hiss.
Elijah’s gaze holds mine steady. “Then don’t act like you are.”
I freeze.
Because I don’t know if he means the club.
Or if he means the way my whole body still remembers a man’s presence that never even touched me.
I sit back, throat tight. Elijah softens like he realizes he pushed too hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says quiet. “That came out wrong.”
I stare at him a second, then exhale. “It’s fine.”
“It ain’t,” he says. “But I’m trying.”
His hand shifts on the table closer to mine. Not touching. Just close.
It’s the kind of move that would make sense. The kind of move a good man makes when he wants you to feel safe.
For a second I let myself imagine it.
Me and him. Normal. Easy. No whispers. No biker wives. No gloves on my car. No fear.
Then the front door opens.
The bell jingles.
The atmosphere shifts.
I don’t even have to look to know. My body knows before my eyes do.
Oaks strolls in like he's the boss.
Jeans and boots, dark shirt hugging his shoulders. Cut announcing his authority. It shows in the way the man behind the counter straightens. It’s in the way two bikers at the far table shut their mouths mid-sentence. It’s in the way the whole diner goes quieter without meaning to.
He scans the room once, slow.
His eyes land on me.
My heart does something humiliating.
He holds my gaze for half a second.
Then he looks away.
Like I’m nothing.
Like I’m a stranger.
Like I didn’t wake up in his bed smelling like his soap with his note under my hands.
He moves past my booth without stopping. Doesn’t flick his gaze toward Elijah. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t mark territory.
He walks straight to the counter, orders coffee, and plants himself with his back half-turned like he’s waiting on somebody else.
My throat tightens so fast it hurts.
Elijah watches me, and I hate that he can see it. Hate that my reaction is written all over my face like I’m thirteen again and crushes still make me stupid.
“You like him,” Elijah says quietly.
“I don’t,” I lie.
Elijah’s eyes flick toward Oaks, then back to me. “He likes you.”
I clench my jaw. “No. He doesn’t.”
Elijah leans forward, voice gentler. “Brittany. You’re shaking.”
I realize my hands are trembling on the edge of my fries basket like I’m about to snap the plastic.
I force them still. “I’m fine.”
Elijah’s gaze sharpens. “Then why is everyone whispering about it.”
I don’t answer.
Because what the hell can I say?
Yes, the married biker with the wedding ring and dangerous eyes saw me once and now this whole county thinks I’m a slut and his wife wants to rip my hair out.
Yes, he warned me to watch my back and then disappeared like he never existed.
Yes, I hate him for ignoring me and I hate myself for caring.
Elijah shifts, and his hand finally touches mine. Just a gentle press like he’s grounding me.
Oaks sees it.
I know he sees it because his posture changes, barely. A tension in his shoulders. A stillness that wasn’t there a second ago.
He doesn’t turn around.
He doesn’t come over.
He doesn’t do a damn thing.
But the air gets colder.
Elijah’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles, a small reassuring movement.
Oaks’ jaw flexes.
I can see it from across the room.
That’s when the anger that’s been simmering all week crawls up my throat and finally shows its teeth.
I stand so fast it moves the booth and it scrapes loud on the tile.
Every head turns.
I don’t care.
I grab my laptop and my purse with shaking hands.
Elijah stands too. “Brittany…”
“I’m fine,” I say too sharp.
I walk straight toward the counter.
Straight toward Oaks.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to warn me. Like it knows this is a bad idea.
I stop a foot away from him.
He doesn’t look at me.
He keeps his eyes on the coffee cup like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
I wait.
He still doesn’t look up.
My voice comes out low and furious. “You don’t get to act like you don’t know me.”
Oaks’ fingers tighten around the cup.
He finally lifts his gaze, and for a split second the mask slips. Something hot. Something possessive. Something dark.
Then it shutters closed so fast I wonder if I imagined it.
His voice stays quiet and controlled. “Go sit down, Brittany.”
The way he says my name nearly knocks the breath out of me, like it tastes good and he hates that it does.
“No,” I whisper, rage making my hands shake. “You wanna warn me about your wife and then pretend I don’t exist? You wanna stand between me and danger and then leave me out here by myself?”
Oaks’ eyes harden. “You ain’t by yourself.”
“Feels like it,” I spit.
He glances past me toward Elijah, quick and sharp. He doesn’t like seeing Elijah that close. I can tell.
Then he looks back at me and lowers his voice further. “This ain’t the place.”
“You made it the place,” I hiss.
His face becomes rigid. “You want attention? You want a scene? Because you keep pushing me, I’ll give you one.”
My stomach flips. Heat and fear and want tangled together.
I force my chin up. “Then why are you ignoring me?”
For a second he doesn’t answer.
Then he leans in just enough that his breath hits my ear and his voice drops into something that feels like a threat and a confession at the same time.
“Because everybody’s watching,” he murmurs. “And you don’t understand what it costs me to look at you too long.”
My throat tightens.
“Not in public.” He draws back a fraction, colder now, loud for all to hear. “You ain’t my business.”
The words sting like a slap.
I step back like he shoved me.
His eyes flicker, not regret.
Restraint.
I stand there with my chest tight and my eyes burning and my pride cracking down the middle.
Then I do the only thing I can.
I turn away.
I walk out of Slice with my shoulders stiff and my throat tight and my hands shaking so bad I almost drop my keys.
Behind me I hear Elijah call my name.
I don’t turn back.
I get in my car and slam the door.
My breath comes fast. My eyes sting. I blink hard, furious at myself for letting a biker’s silence hurt me like this.
As I pull out, I glance in the rearview.
Oaks is still at the counter.
He’s watching my car leave.
His face is stone.
But his hand is clenched so tight around that coffee cup I swear he could crush it.
And the worst part is, even through the anger, even through the humiliation, one thought slides in and settles like a brand.
He didn’t ignore me because he doesn’t care.
He ignored me because he does.
In Hell, Kentucky, that might be the most dangerous thing a man can admit.
I drive home with my jaw clenched and my heart pounding, telling myself I’m done. Telling myself I don’t need him. Telling myself I’ll choose the safe boy with the clean shirt and the gentle hands.
But as the sun drops and the road turns dark, I catch headlights behind me.
Not close.
Not far.
Just steady.
Following.
My stomach drops because I don’t know if it’s Oaks making sure I get home.
Or someone else.
Someone who ain’t here to protect me.
Someone who’s been waiting for the right moment to stop whispering and start taking.